Long Shorthand Poems
Long Shorthand Poems. Below are the most popular long Shorthand by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shorthand poems by poem length and keyword.
Does a song make you feel a thought?
Do you wonder how it was wrought?
Is a song like a painting, like a puzzle put together
a shorthand to emotion, a spiritual endeavor?
Is it the 'only truth', is it a universal tongue?
Do you get sick after a zillion times sung?
Does it piggyback on something real, but itself is fake?
If you could choose life without music, is that a choice you'd make?
Lyrics affect notes in a mutual dance
A short cut to emotion or to a trance
Some let a song guide the trajectory of the mind
But the wisdom's often phony, just there because it rhymed.
A dancer to wild music looks insane
If there's no corresponding echo in your brain..
The sum may be more than the parts
But should it guide all those lonely hearts?
Jeff's car jumped a sidewalk, damaged his brain
Now he likes music, caught singing in the rain.
It used to be background, now he can't keep it apart
The beat grabs his spirit, the melody his heart.
Mark got a concussion in a barroom brawl
Now he doesn't like music at all
Doesn't soar or dive with the opera tune
Gave up serenading women under an Italian moon.
Khan sang silly songs, while admiring himself
Camera caught the narcissism he had acted out in stealth
He had to face the music, had to see how he appeared
He snapped back to normal but nasty folks jeered.
Yes you can be mocked for your tune, people twist the stiletto
They'll imitate you in an irritating falsetto.
Is a personality like a tune, some with an ugly twist
When you hit your last chord, will your song be missed?
Paternal grandmother's headstone - Beth David, Elmont, Long Island
Shaindel (Sadie), variant of Shana Harris
died May 13th, 1959 exquisitely chiseled
alphanumeric characters legibly engraved
sepulchral casket entombing lovely bones
deoxyribonucleic acid repurposed into me
Matthew Scott Harris patronymic protector,
when I die taking family surname to netherland
who unwittingly named his youngest daughter
after his recently deceased father's mother.
Mortality encompasses subsequent cremation
never mind death of yours truly unbeknownst
mine soul will migrate towards deceased kith
kindred folks only known courtesy genealogy
descendents called Eastern Europe homeland
upon landing at Ellis Island émigrés hugged
immigration officials and illegibly scribbled
unpronounceable/ unreadable birth names
subsequently adopting common shorthand.
Chromosomes reconstituted genetic material
gifted from forebears ecstatic immigrants apt
to be regaled by relatives hustling newcomers
into fast paced frenzy, the latter gesticulating
at cityscape marveling over hubbub jabbering
babble synchronized in tandem with hawkers
and vendors selling, peddling comestibles,
gewgaws, papers, et cetera predating buyer
beware analogous to innocents abroad say
by George an American in Paris humming
Rhapsody in Blue.
Agog regarding novel sights never seen within
father/mother land, viz supposed New World
blitzkrieg eventually quieted, relegated, shelved...
analogous by Dickens perusing tchotchkes
commonly found within olde curiosity shop,
yet no matter acclimatization arose espying
eye opening merchandise, the dirt poor status
regarding bloodlines a couple generations ago
immediate deterrent experienced by Aaron
Harris (papa's father) as a boy, who provided
for his family, their hardscrabble existence
only somewhat alleviated thru hook and crook.
Please pardon poetic license usurped,
especially slight exaggeration of penury
promulgated concerning up by bootstraps
scenario evinced by paternal grandfather
after he attained and emerged out boyhood,
though destitution imprinted thru his infancy
until growing up hardened qua hard school
of knocks limiting him to eighth grade education.
There was a scrumptious new boy in town.
We Seniors were agog,
He went around the square twice
On a Saturday night
In small town USA in the middle of America
In 1969, this is tantamount to announcing his availability.
We sat around waiting for his third pass, but it did not happen.
He is scrumptious! We told each other, tittering, and laughing.
"He is mine!" Sassy, one of our pushier dollies let us know
We backed off for she was the original mean girl.
And we were all Bible-belt-home-grown,
Not wanting to take on her devil ways
She came running up to us in the hallway two weeks later
The first day of school. "Scrumptious is here!" she screamed.
Scrumptious was our new Shorthand teacher.
I was glad I had already signed up for Shorthand class
For many tried to get in after seeing this blue-eyed boy
Who was all of twenty, so much older, but still scrumptious.
Scrumptious was great to look at from afar, but took shorthand
Way too seriously. It was a difficult class.
I never told Sassy how serious he was,
Choosing to tease her a bit for she was one of the ones
Who did not get a seat in a class that made us work hard
For our grade; very very hard. Scrumptious? Not any more.
@ lst catchin on 2 my celfne wz a relief
thN txtN came on2 d scene n brawt me nu grief.
I couldn’t evn lern shrth& wen I wz in skool.
txtN S 2much lk dat, so I’ll stay “un-cool!”
I’ve gotten thru a lfetme w/o uzn it.
n wouldn’t uno it, no symbl 4t rhym sh-t
Translation:
At last catching on to my cell phone was a relief.
Then texting came onto the scene and brought me new grief.
I couldn’t even learn shorthand when I was in school.
Texting is too much like that, so I’ll stay “un-cool!”
I’ve gotten through a lifetime without using it.
And wouldn’t you know it, no symbol for the rhyme sh-t
"The Croquis"
I draw what is required
from the Russian Doll
embracing my mind
Heart-shaped,
a planchette to guide
the necrophonic void
eternal,
recalcitrant,
answers back like a child
automatic
white chalk drawing
whispers from a Ouija board
guided by spectral voices
charcoal shadows dark
cling fast to all the sharp
cobwebbed corners
directing and pulling
invisible refined strings
the poetry's ectoplasm is outlined
in moments softened
smudged into the rough draft
canvassing the remnants of a life
unseen
yet on-demand
shards of light cut
some kind of spiralled bliss
rippling unclear
like moon gloaming ocean
waves across my nemesis
the Croquis
letters in pitman shorthand
old school hieroglyphics, to you
are all mine
some future
I will be
your most desired haunting
closer in séance
yet still moving fluid
out of view
somewhere
ashes scattered
over sea
like a siren selkie
calling you
back into me
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
“White Chalk” / P.J. Harvey
https://youtu.be/5YKbcWQNtE0
croquis
séance / meeting
planchette /
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Planchette
LYRICS/"White Chalk", P.J. Harvey
https://genius.com/Pj-harvey-white-chalk-lyrics
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Morning light finds the cracks first~
those rivers mapped by laughter,
by squinting at horizons now behind me.
My knees complain like rusty hinges,
but they still bend.
My hands, spotted with time,
still remember how to write shorthand,
how to cradle a newborn’s head.
I collect aches like souvenirs,
each one a receipt for living~
the hip that remembers the fall,
the shoulder that recalls the weight
of carrying someone else.
The young sprint past me,
their bodies loud with urgency.
I linger by the lilacs,
learning the art of standing still,
the slow art of gathering shadows,
and knowing which ones to lean into,
which ones to outrun.
Aging is marvelous.
Aging is strange.
Aging is wearing a coat
that can’t be returned.
In my family, a convent in Lucerne, Switzerland loomed legend large.
It’s name is “La Madone Noire” (the Black Madonna) and according to my mom, it is a “finishing school” where captious girls, who lied or who wouldn’t
behave, were sent to live with and be schooled by nuns.
It was, from all reports, a terrible and stern place where there was never any
ice cream or bedtime stories and the toys, when there were any, were made of straw.
Most of the time it was my older sister Annick getting the dark Poe-like lectures, but I was there, in my high chair, listening wide-eyed. The very idea that Annick could be snatched up, for some infraction, and sent off to the nuns horrified me to the point that my heartbeat seemed to come through my whole body.
Eventually, as we grew, “Lucerne” became a shorthand for “shape up or else,”
and oddly, it never lost Its potency. Hmm, you know, come to think of it - there
was no equivalent monastery for my brother.
“Phoenix Dreams in the Realm of Crows”
wake up
shake up
kaleidoscope girl
jigsaw
see saw
fit the pieces
she
another world
away
the in-betweeen
flows easily
through the veil
safe harbour
opening
portals
for ocean steering
curious kaleidoscope
stories to sew
the slip stitch
love knot cast
anchor’s raised
time’s racing
discharge fear
or remain
feathers spreading
in the realm
of crows
poetic
messengers
casting their spells
for opening
tombs turning
dead leaves to tomes
in the crowded hideaway
where shorthand, fixed tight to masts,
swings suspended for transcribing
dark nights,
where soft and fierce
treasure dwells
feathers spreading
cunning cuneiform for ghosts
who speak in tongues
transformative
strange letters
unfurling
spreading
deep indigo and
jesserant jet feathers
swords and keys
for plundering
and opening
impromptu places
mysterious better nests
for hidden golden eggs
broken yoked,
freed
spilling silver spoons,
curl love drunk
into warm skinned
velvet embryos
hugging new bodies
of work, slick palaces
for bedding
better never-endings
never ending,
electric muses
flocked
and kissing
sated singing
dreams
in the realm
of crows
the in-betweeen
flows easily
through the veil
safe harbour
opening
portals
for ocean steering
bejewelled St Elmo
phoenix fire stories lit, to sew
the slip stitch
love knot cast
anchor’s raised
astral charting
glossy winged stars
albatross angels
waxing lyrical
follies and flights
ignited, illuminating
phoenix dreams
in the realm
of crows
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
“Hideaway”/ Queens of the Stone Age
https://youtu.be/2dcbcic06vw
"Let It Happen" / Tame Impala
https://youtu.be/NMRhx71bGo4
"Nothing That Has Happened So Far Has Been Anything We Could Control"/Tame Impala
https://youtu.be/C1VelTQ3hdY
Crow Symbolism
https://www.onthefeeder.com/crow-symbolism/
LYRICS/ “Hideaway”, Queens of the Stone Age
https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/queensofthestoneage/hideaway.html
LYRICS/"Let It Happen", Tame Impala
https://genius.com/Tame-impala-let-it-happen-lyrics
With a vast love for the worlds,
Art, music, and poetry.
His active heart devours,
All ekphrasis poetry.
For some of his writings and art,
Grace the pages of magazines.
With many forms of print,
Largely online publishing’s.
For he is an outlaw poet,
Who writes his heart away.
Educating other artists,
Through the night and day.
Motivated by Ephesians 2:10,
“Each of us are God’s work of art.”
Helping others realize their artistic gifts,
Brings an enormous joy to his heart.
Thank you Sir for blessing us,
With the mastered art of shorthand.
For the world will always know,
Buckinghamshire’s Brian Strand.
___________________________________
Dedicated to the one and only Brian Strand
Thanks for all your support...Raul
I walked into my school at noon one day, straight from a bland boring counseling meeting and no one was there.
No receptionist, no secretary, no nurse, no vice principal, no custodian, oh, where were they, where?
I sat down and started answering the phone, because how often they let me do this is very rare.
"A MOTHER IS COMING UP HERE, AND SHE'S MAD," Principal said. "I've called security, can you answer the phones for now?"
Oh, boy, could I! I love answering the phones. You never know what nut case will call. The principal ran back out, and the phone rang.
A female's voice started yelling "You tell that blankety blank principal, that I'm coming up there with my brothers, and we are going to blankety blank someone up, me and my gang."
I take rapid shorthand, so, yes, I had it all. I repeated it back to her, "Is that all?" I asked her. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" I'm here to serve, after all.
"I'm not going to stand for that blankety blank handbook that says that my daughter cannot....who is his anyway?" She asked, as her tirade became a much slower crawl.
"This is Caren Krutsinger," I told her. I had visited her son in the hospital, just the other day,
"Oh, hi, Mrs. Krutsinger!" she said, her voice lilting upward, in a sing songy 'I like you' kind of way.
"And if that blankety blank principal gives my daughter a detention I am going to blankety blank her up. I'll be there in five minutes all in all."
I foolishly told the principal about this call. "Oh, good, you get along with her," the principal said."When she comes up here, you can go in the conference room with them, in case she brings her giant brothers, mean and tall."
Luckily security arrived first, and the entourage of angry stomped into the conference room raging and ranting and stomping and shouting without me after all.